Requiem
by Stradivari
Summary: From the beginning to end, life and death the differences seem to vast to hold in one's eyes. Yet when seen from the perspective of something everlasting, the differences change to be the same.


**R E Q U I E M**

_-Stradivari-_

**:i:**

i. D R E A M

and even in the beginning, she could see the black of the fallen leaves, dark beneath the scent of crushed needles. Their petals flared in their wilting, tears, like blossoms of fire.

They fringed the edge of a wild sea of green, bordering the fading intensity like the colour of his irises fading to the white of his face. They ringed the forest like the foam rings the domain of the wave, their fury and their calm; shot through with the frost's brilliant violet.

The beach lay beyond this, untainted. And there was something attractive in that naïve beauty which appealed to her senses- a breeze which carries the song of the honeysuckle in the air. She had walked down that valley, curtained by the mountains which swept outwards at the edge of the lake, the emerald at the sleeves of a lady's dress. And it had been this that drew her there in her dreams, not the lack of sunlight or the chorus of nocturnal birds that could not help but intrude- it was the mirror, a pensive of blue. A mirror that, even at full moon, did not replicate silver in its sapphire depths, nor sing back to the ripples of a flute which depicted its exaggerated splendor. It could not lie with only one face. Yet that face could please no men. It was a passive face, plain yet perfect, features cold in that simplicity. A painting, holding no life within the gilt of the frame. It was a barrier against he seething mass that would surge across its placid waters before the dream was past, before the night had had its first kids upon the mossy hilltops across the ridge. Poetic, such poetic irony.

They needed no bridge, and their reflections would be shattered beneath their feet.

Those who lusted after the Lore, who would spin colours in the air, blind to the colours around them. Those who would create illusions to deceive their own, deaf to their own delusion. Those who created magic, yet could not love the magic presented to them, could not love, like she did, the beauty of the mind that hid behind his displeasing mask. They would plant a seed, resplendent in what they believe was good, and yet the flower would be clothed in thorns, their secrets –so petty, so worthless- would be guarded with jealousy then times stronger than hers.

And throughout, the mirror of the lake would remain the same, blank as it had always been. They could never understand her devotion, despite their stolen wisdom and grandeur, never-

Yet when they gazed out upon the daffodils in spring, she prayed as she had prayed then, that there would be black amongst the gold.

ii. A W A K E N I N G

As it was with all dreamers, she could see ruins where there was neither glory nor darkness. She could see the towers and turrets, their stones deprived of the magic that had bound time and age together. She could feel the warmth of the fire at her fingertips and the bitterness of the ashes in the air. There was none, of course, only the circles and the chipped marble where a fountain once flowed in a courtyard, its elegance long washed away. And yet, the taste of the ashes was sweet in its own way, and the laughter of water, non existent, seem to overwhelm the silence.

Grass and trees now danced; their robes green and without the trickery of those who danced before them. A, B, A- the emperors came back to claim their empire- she knew they would- and the swallows screamed their requiem.

And what was different to a dreamer, to a dream, was that she could now see the moon the lapis-lazuli of the lake where there was none before, the light of the stars, lost, in its blankness, candle-light, shrouded by the phantom shadows of the castle, its eyes empty and dead.

And there was no beauty in what she saw, in the present, the past, in what might have been. And she saw it all. Perhaps now, that their reign is over, may history repeat herself. Sunrise- identical glow of amber to the flames of sunset, night- identical virtues to day.

_For there is no good or evil._

And even in the end, she could see the white petals of a blossoming narcissus amongst the dead.

**:i:**

**Author's Note: This is my first HP fic- and second drabble-listic oneshot. A fic of too many extended metaphors and subtleties, which, now I look at it, don't seem to be good enough to actually be understood. Very interested in what you think is going on here- if anything at all. **

**CC is very welcome, and typos? Tell me, I'll go back and terminate them.**


End file.
